


Resonance

by RhineGold



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: (OR DO I???), F/M, I don't even ship this, M/M, ancient fiction from the dawn of time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: “…You swore it would be quick…” He whispers, staring up at me with a face made for a painting of a tortured saint.My mouth works around the words, but the muscles of my body cannot relax enough to function. My voice box seems to be the only part of me incapable of vibrating now. Nothing comes out but a snarl. I know he can hear me.I promised I would make you suffer.
Relationships: Edward Cullen/Bella Swan, Jacob Black/Bella Swan, Jacob Black/Edward Cullen
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Planemo

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Lord I forgot I wrote a Twilight story. This was written for a former friend who was IN DEEP into this fandom. I stand by this fic; come at me bro.

_“We are not together here, though we lie entwined…  
To make room for the other presence, we both draw back in our minds…  
I have a prophecy, threatening to spill into words,  
this growing certainty of over…”_  
-Vienna Teng, _Between_

This doesn’t end here. I won’t let it.

I can feel her under me, everything I ever wanted, wrapped in a clammy sheet of everything that repulses me. My emotions are choking me, and I can’t breathe. In that, it seems, we’re the same. This is panic, this is fear, this is hope, hatred, and love. An eternity in the shape of her collarbone, the scent of her hair.

My hands are on her skin and she is beautiful, - even like this, even as this. Hands clutch one another in supplication, in pleading, beating, begging against her cooling flesh, too hard, too hard, and there is no response. My mouth covers hers, triggering thoughts, dreams, and memories I’ve tried to bury these many months. 

This is nothing like that time. She isn’t here. She can’t see me, can’t feel me, can’t love me, or hate me. Her mouth tastes like blood.

Her lips are cold.  
She is cold.

As the last traces of warmth fade from her flesh, I become aware of him again. He collapses, slowly, gracelessly, for what he is, to fall beside her, beside me. I can feel his chill more acutely than hers. As he stole the life and heat from this girl, he devours the heat in the room. As voracious as ever, this fairytale monster reaches for more. He lifts his hand, shaking with an emotion I don’t want to consider, and reaches out to brush her cheek. He does not see me. 

I close my eyes as he sobs against her chest, the sound an indication of the tears he cannot shed. There is salt lingering at the corner of her eyes, tears for the child she will never know, the life she will never lead. 

He is speaking now, voice too low, mumbling words I cannot hear, words I do not wish to hear. His icy lips slide over the mottled flesh of her throat, again and again, whispering words and flesh over the ruin of the woman we both loved.

Finally, he lapses into silence, a marble angel overlooking a half-finished tomb.

She is cold.  
And so are we.  
Numb.


	2. Caldera

_“The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out  
You left me in the dark  
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight  
In the shadow of your heart_

_And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat  
I tried to find the sound  
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,  
So darkness I became…”_  
Florence + Machine, _Cosmic Love_

This doesn’t end here. I won’t let it.

There is nothing here, no sense of time, no sense of space. In the darkness, in all these trees, there are so many sounds, so many scents and movements. I am blind to them all. The universe is eclipsed by the creature in front of me – under me – around me. 

I am shaking, writhing, vibrating at a frequency I never thought possible, but I do not want to phase. Not yet. I want to watch this with my human eyes, see his face below me, see him below me, as I rip him apart. 

As we crash together the first time, he is snarling and spitting, his eyes wide and luminescent in this half-light, the colour of sunset across the waters, and I am lost. His skin is cold and hard as marble as his arm smashes across my face, pulverizing my cheekbone under the surf of his grief. 

He thinks he is heavy. 

I will drown him. 

He fights me with an almost single-minded ferocity, going each time for my face or my throat. I can feel my skin bruising and breaking and swelling under the brunt of his strength. I wonder if he is trying to mark me, to ruin me, to make me as unrecognizable in my own flesh as she was in hers. 

He recoils at this thought as though I have struck him in return. My blood singing, I do, smashing him back into the tree line, the wood splintering and disintegrating under his weight. If he is the moon, then I am the ocean, pulled to him, sucked back against my will by the siren force of gravity.

Hurling myself the distance, I crash down on top of him - his knee comes up to jam painfully into my stomach. Organs and muscles scream in protest, wrenching with me as I reach for his throat, my long, hot hands curling around his shoulders. I wonder if this is how she felt, when it kicked and clawed its way out of her, tearing her apart from the inside out, just like its monstrous father. He shudders, and I don’t know if it is from my thoughts again, or from the way my fingers pry into his collarbones, trying to rip the bones from his flesh.

His skin is snow-white beneath me, and smooth. It’s hard to get a grip on him – his flesh is so slick and so cold. I can feel it biting into my own heat, biting at me, taunting me with its texture. There is so much tactile memory here – the feel of her cooling skin under my hands as I tried in vain to beat air back into lungs past carrying – the sensation of thin satin, warmed by her flesh, so delicate and alien under hands not used to having fingers… 

She had never been more beautiful to me, than when she had been dressed to become another man’s for all time. But all time had been less than a month. 

He cringes again, curling to the side as I throw him against the ground, snarling and growling so mindlessly I almost wonder if I have already phased after all. 

He isn’t fighting me any more.

I don’t know how long it takes for me to understand that he is speaking to me. Perhaps he has been this entire time. Perhaps this was the first time. His voice is hoarse and cracked, brittle with pain and self-loathing.

“We had an agreement, Jacob Black.”

Hearing him say my name makes me want to tear his limbs from his torso, makes me want to rip his throat apart and bury my face in his shredded flesh to inhale the scent of his purloined blood. Animal blood. Just like me. 

How dare he speak to me now, as though there could ever be words, be human concepts, contracts, understandings between two creatures like us?! 

“…You swore it would be quick…” He whispers, staring up at me with a face made for a painting of a tortured saint. 

He’s no saint. He’s a beast. A beast and a murderer. I promised him it would be swift, that there would be retribution coming to him before he had a chance to react, a chance to defend. 

Words of men.   
Lies. 

No.   
Hearts of beasts.   
Truth. 

My mouth works around the words, but the muscles of my body cannot relax enough to function. My voice box seems to be the only part of me incapable of vibrating now. Nothing comes out but a snarl. I know he can hear me.

_I promised I would make you suffer._

His eyes widen as he realizes the implication of my words, realizes what I am thinking.

“No…”

_It wasn’t quick for her. It was horrible and painful. She knew she’d done everything she could and it still wasn’t enough. …What better punishment could there be for you? What’s hers is yours, after all._

“You promised me… death.”

_My words will condemn or absolve you, remember? We look at the spirit of the agreement, not the wording, right? Only I can change or carry out the pact between us. Only I can give you the punishment you deserve. Punishment as I see fit. And I choose this. I choose… nothing._

“Jacob, please!”

It takes every ounce of willpower to turn away from that sight. He is on his back, flawless flesh half-buried in the earth of the forest, the remnants of the trees. So vulnerable, so broken. 

_Live with it._

The sickening, too-dry sound of his sobbing echoes in my head as I run, my body exploding into relief as my forelegs hit the ground. Unwittingly, I echo his grief, tumbling it, magnifying it, giving it song as I howl. 

_I will be back._ Can he hear my certainty, at this speed, at this distance? Am I his whole world, rushing away from him, as he is mine? 

I can smell him; feel him, lying there in the forest, though I am swiftly leaving it behind. The desire to make good on that promise – to bury my pain in the weight of his flesh – to drown my sorrow in the slick of his blood – sings through me like a drug, calling for vengeance, for violence, and for resolution.

Bella, Bella, the safety of my shore, lost even from my sea of my grief as I run from the cosmic pull of the moon. I will avenge you, somehow. I will make this right.

This doesn’t end here, Edward Cullen. 

I won’t let it.


End file.
